The Miracle at St. Bruno's

by Philippa Carr

  “Is everything well?” he asked me anxiously.

  I told him I was very well. He savored Eugene’s wine and said it was good.

  I told him Eugene had come to us when he left Caseman Court.

  “Why, it is as though the Abbey is reborn,” he commented.

  “It is very different,” I contradicted quickly. “This is merely a manor house, but as we have so many buildings and the land so we must needs make use of them. We plan to develop the farm. Indeed we must for it is necessary for us to make the place profitable.”

  Rupert said he would like to ride around our farmlands before he left and I said I would accompany him.

  I asked how he was faring and he told me he was pleased with his land. He had a pleasant though small manor house and his benevolent brother-in-law had given him the place, which was very likely due to the importuning of Kate.

  “It is of course not as grand as Remus Castle nor St. Bruno’s Abbey, but it serves me well.”

  He looked at me wistfully and I said briskly: “Rupert, you should take a wife.”

  “I am in no mind to,” he answered.

  “Do you have good servants?”

  “Indeed, yes. They serve me well.”

  “Then perhaps the need is not so urgent. But you would like to have children. You would make a good father…and a good husband too I doubt not.”

  “I think,” he answered looking at me steadily, “that I shall remain a bachelor all the days of my life.”

  I could not meet his eye then. I knew that he was telling me that since I had declined to take him no one else would do.

  He will change, I promised myself. When he grows older he will marry. I wanted him to, because I was fond of him and when I contemplated the joys of having children I wanted him to know that too.

  After he had eaten of Clement’s tansy cake I mounted my horse and together we rode out to the farmlands. He examined them carefully. Abbey land was invariably good land, he said. We would have a very prosperous farm there in a few years.

  I had told him that Bruno was on the Continent studying the new edible roots which were being brought into England. He knew of them and said that he hoped to grow them too. The English were now delighted in what was known as the salad and which had been popular on the Continent for some years. Queen Katharine of Aragon had been very partial to a salad, but she had always had to send to Holland for it. Now we should grow them here and if the King’s next Queen fancied a salad she could have one from an English garden.

  When it was clear that we could not possibly be overheard he brought his horse close to mine and said quietly: “I have been a little concerned, Damask.”

  “Why so?” I asked.

  “It was something Simon Caseman said.”

  “I have always distrusted that man. What did he say?”

  “He referred to your husband as the Abbot and said that there was little difference in the Abbey as it is now and as it was ten years ago.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “I understand that several of the monks have returned.”

  “They work on the farm at the mill and about the place.”

  “It could be dangerous, Damask.”

  “We are doing nothing against the law.”

  “I am sure you are not, but there are these rumors because several of the monks who were here have come back and are working as before.”

  “But we are doing nothing wrong,” I insisted.

  “You must not only keep within the King’s law but appear to do so. I do not like it that Simon Caseman should be talking.”

  “He is malicious because he wanted the Abbey for himself.”

  “Damask, if you should need me at any time, you know I shall be there.”

  “Thank you, Rupert. You have always been good to me.”

  After he had gone I continued to think of him. If I could have loved him instead of Bruno, life would have been less complicated. But one cannot love where it would be wise to do so, for love and wisdom do not go hand in hand.

  I had no regrets, I assured myself. But I liked to remember that Rupert was my staunch friend.

  At last the month of June was with us. Bruno had recently returned from the Continent. He had little to say about his visit and I found myself scarcely curious because the baby’s arrival was imminent.

  My mother came almost every day. When she had satisfied herself that my condition could give no cause for alarm she turned her attention to the state of the little garden James had made for me. James was a man of about thirty. Whether he had been a monk, or a lay brother, I had never asked. I felt it was wiser to know nothing. In any case his knowledge of plants was good and my roses almost rivaled those of my mother.

  She and I sat there and talked of babies; she recalled some of the mannerisms I had shown in my infancy but her talk was chiefly of Paul and Peter. She was knotting a shawl for my baby as she talked and her fingers moved busily. It occurred to me that she was a great deal more content than she used to be in the old days and I marveled at this. It seemed strange that anyone could find Simon Caseman a more satisfactory husband than my father, but that was what she appeared to have done.

  She was telling me that she had been to see the midwife who assured her that everything concerning me appeared to be going well and a normal birth was expected. She had arranged that as soon as my first pains started she was to be sent for.

  I felt a sudden rush of affection for her.

  “I never really knew how much you cared for me,” I said.

  She turned quite pink and said: “Nonsense! Were you not my own child?”

  Then I fell to musing that what had been the great tragedy of my youth had to her in a way been an escape, and how strange life was when nothing seemed to be wholly bad, nothing wholly good.

  A few days later my pains did start, but by that time, due to my mother’s care, the midwife was already installed at the Abbey.

  My labor was not prolonged and for me the joy of knowing that my baby would soon be in my arms exceeded any discomfort. It was necessarily an agonizing experience but I had so longed for my baby that I could endure it as I suppose martyrs do torture and death.

  At last it was over and when I heard the cry of my child my heart leaped with joy.

  I saw my mother—for once authoritative—and the midwife and Bruno.

  “My baby…,” I began.

  My mother was beaming. “A beautiful healthy baby.”

  I held out my arms.

  “Later, Damask. In a very short time you shall see your lovely little girl.”

  A girl! I felt the tears in my eyes. I believed then that I had wanted a girl.

  I noticed Bruno then. He had not spoken. He would want to see his daughter.

  But there was the child; they laid her in my arms and I thought: “This is the happiest moment of my life.”

  I had known that Bruno had been convinced that the child would be a boy but I had not thought he could be so bitterly disappointed.

  He scarcely looked at the child. As for myself, I could not bear her out of my sight. During those first nights I would sometimes awake from a hazy dream in which she was no longer with me. I would leap up calling for the nurse. “My baby. Where is my baby?”

  I would have to be assured that she was sleeping peacefully in her cot.

  The christening ceremony was simple—not the solemn occasion which would have been accorded to a boy. Bruno seemed scarcely interested. He was still nursing his disappointment in the child’s sex.

  I thought: I will make up for his indifference, my darling child. I shall love you so much that you will miss nothing.

  She was named Catherine—a version of Kate’s name and that of the two Queens. I called her my little Cat. She was an ugly baby, said the midwife, and whispered the consolation that it was always those who were born ugly who became the real beauties.

  I was sure she was right for my little Cat grew prettier every day.


  The Passing of an Age

  ALL THROUGH THAT YEAR I was so absorbed with my child that I gave little thought to what was going on in the Abbey. There were great changes of course and this was Bruno’s first harvest. Activity was everywhere. From the old barns came the sound of the threshing. Some of the animals had to be slaughtered that November and salted to provide food for the winter. I was but vaguely aware of all this because my entire thoughts were concentrated on my baby. If she sneezed I would send for my mother and she would come with many possets and lotions; and she would reassure me with her laughter, telling me that she had been the same when I was a baby.

  “All these anxieties come with the first,” she told me. “Wait until you have your second. You will not be half as fearful.”

  My baby flourished. She was the joy of my life. I marveled at her tiny hands and feet; her eyes were blue and wondering; when she first smiled at me my heart filled with an overflowing love and I cared for nothing that had gone before since it had brought me my child.

  The world outside began to intrude on the little paradise I shared with my baby.

  There was a letter from Kate.

  “I am coming to see you. I must have a glimpse of my…what is she? Cousin of some sort, I suppose.”

  I smiled. How typical of Kate to think of the child’s connection with her!

  “According to you she is the most wonderful child who ever existed but a mother’s testimonial is rarely accurate. So I must come and see this model of perfection for myself. Remus is going to Scotland on the King’s business. So while he is away, why should I not visit St. Bruno’s Abbey?”

  I was delighted as always at the prospect of seeing Kate, but a little uneasy for she had a penetrating eye and she was particularly interested in the relationship between Bruno and myself, which had not grown closer since Catherine’s birth. Moreover I was perfectly content with my child.

  Kate arrived in due course, full of vitality and as beautiful as ever.

  “How convenient that we should not be too far away!” she announced. “What if I had married a Scottish lord? It would not have been so easy for us to meet.” She scrutinized me. “Damask! The Mother! It suits you, Damask. You are more plump. Quite the matron. No, scarcely that. But different. And where is this paragon who is named after me?”

  “I call her my little Cat,” I said fondly.

  She admired the baby. “Yes, a little beauty. Well, Cat, what do you think of Cousin Kate?”

  My baby gave Kate that beautiful smile and Kate bent over and kissed her.

  “There, sweetheart,” she said, “we are to be good friends.”

  I could see that she was not so much interested in the child as intensely curious about the state of affairs between Bruno and myself. She talked openly about Remus. She was patronizing in a tolerant way, but she was certainly grateful for the life of luxury which she owed to him.

  Carey came with her—a lovely boy nearly two years old, curious, mischievous and with a look of Kate.

  He was interested in little Cat and would stand by her cot gazing at her. She liked him too, it seemed. And there was of course Honey whom I had been particularly careful not to neglect since the arrival of my baby. I wanted them to grow up as sisters but I suppose it was inevitable that she should be a little jealous, for try as I might I could not entirely hide my absorption with my own child.

  I washed and fed Catherine myself but I would make sure to always have Honey by to help. “She is only little, Honey,” I would say. “Not a big girl like you. She has much to learn.”

  That cheered her a little.

  “She is your little sister,” I said; and I thought then that if Keziah’s story was true Honey was in fact my baby’s aunt.

  But now Kate was with us and life naturally changed. She was curious about everything that was going on in the Abbey. She watched it with a sort of envy which told me that she was imagining herself here in my place.

  When Bruno joined us I was aware of her feelings for him. His feelings for her were more guarded, but I knew that he was not indifferent to her.

  She was of course knowledgeable about what was going on at Court and loved to show off her superiority in that respect.

  The King was looking for a new wife.

  “Poor man, he is so unlucky with his wives! And now no woman is very anxious for the greatest honor in the land. Girls tremble when the King casts a lascivious eye in their direction. They are inclined to say Anne Boleyn’s famous remark in reverse as it were, ‘Nay, Sire, your wife I cannot be. I would liefer be your mistress.’ ”

  “I pity the poor woman he chooses next,” I said.

  “She will be a woman who has married before, you may be sure of it. This new statute would terrify an unmarried girl. You know it has now been declared high treason for anyone not a virgin to many the King. Parents are afraid to send their young daughters to Court.”

  “Perhaps he will not marry at all for he is no longer young.”

  “He is nearly fifty years of age, and overweight. He has an ulcer on his leg which is quite offensive. But he is a King withal and his courtiers wait upon his smiles and scurry from his frowns. So he has great attraction left.”

  “Is power more important than handsome looks and youth?” I asked.

  “Power is the very essence of masculine charm, I do assure you. I could never love the most beautiful cowherd in the world but I might easily feel affection for an aging King.”

  “How cynical you have become!”

  “I have not become so. Come now, you know I have always been so.”

  “Well, pray do not cast your eyes upon the King for strange as it may seem I should suffer a pang or two of sorrow if your head was severed from your shoulders.”

  “It has always been firmly planted thereon and there I intend it to remain. My dear cousin, what pleasure it gives me to be with you! Forget you not that I am married to Remus and unless he meets a gory end in Scotland, which is not unlikely since he carries arms there for the King and the battles have been fierce, I am in no position to take another husband.”

  “Oh, Kate, do not talk so!”

  “You are still the same sentimental Damask. Nay, have no fear for me. I shall know how to take care of myself if I should become a widow.”

  “I had no idea that it was in order to fight that Lord Remus was in Scotland.”

  “The young mother sees not beyond her nest. Did you not know that our King, having lost his wife to the executioner’s ax, has turned his attention—temporarily—to other matters? He wished to be proclaimed King of Scotland. So, Remus in the company of His Grace of Norfolk has now marched over the border. I hear that the Scots have been thoroughly routed and I do believe that His Majesty the King is preparing to join his forces there. So you see, my Remus, between His Grace of Norfolk—uncle of two Queens—and the King himself, will be in the best of company. As I am, for I do declare, my sweet Damask, that little gives me as much pleasure as my discourse with you.”

  And so we talked of matters at Court and we went over the past and recalled incidents from our childhood as one does with those who have shared it.

  She was very content to leave Carey with the children and I saw less of my little daughter during Kate’s stay than I had since her birth. But much as I enjoyed Kate’s company I longed to assure myself continually that my child was not in some danger.

  Kate might laugh at me as my mother did but I could not help this. The child was dearer to me than anything on earth.

  We dined at eleven in the morning and supped at six o’clock. Meals were taken in the big hall and all came to table. It meant very little opportunity of intimate conversation. I sat on one side of Bruno, Kate on the other and often I would catch her eyes sparkling with a mischief of which I could not quite understand. I could not discover their feelings toward each other. Kate’s was light and bantering; he was inclined to be quiet, but he was watchful of her, I know.

  Clement excelled himself duri
ng Kate’s visit. There were big joints of beef and mutton succulently cooked; there were enormous pies and he often decorated these with the Remus coat of arms in honor of Kate. There was bacon, fowls, butter and cheese in plenty. And Bruno was anxious for us to try the carrots and turnips which he had recently brought in and which were fast becoming very popular.

  There was often talk about the work of the farm and those whose duty it was to fish and prepare what they caught for our table or to sell it would talk of the day’s catch in their places below the salt cellar.

  Kate listened attentively and occasionally she would banter with Bruno or with me.

  The children did not join us, none of them being old enough.

  Sometimes when I was in my nursery Kate would wander around the Abbey grounds.

  Once she came back and said: “Damask, what is happening here? This is becoming more like a monastery and Bruno is like the King of his domain. I doubt there is another such community in England at this time. What do you know of Bruno?”

  “I don’t understand you, Kate.”

  “You should know him. He is your husband.”

  “Of course I know him.” Even as I spoke I knew I lied.

  “What is he like…as a husband?”

  “He is a busy man. There is much to do.”

  “Is he affectionate, kind, Damask? How passionately does he love you?”

  “You are too full of questions.”

  “I want to know, Damask. He wanted a son, did he not? How was he when he found he had a daughter?” She laughed almost triumphantly and I hated her in that moment because I felt she was pleased because I had had a daughter and not the son for which Bruno longed.

  “He wanted a son. True he wanted a son. What man does not? He was a little disappointed.”

  “Only a little? Parents are generally pleased with what they get. Not Kings though…and those who are Kings. Poor Anne Boleyn! She lost her head because she could not give the King a son.”

  “She lost her head because the King preferred another woman.”